


Respite

by softestpunk



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt is also old and tired and in need of a hug but he doesn't really remember that, Iorveth is old and tired and needs a hug, M/M, Slow Burn, The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 14:03:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14916729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: When he decides to follow Iorveth to Vergen, Geralt finds himself fascinated with his new elven ally. What would it take to get past Iorveth's defenses? What would it take to get him to open up (and fall into bed)?He sets about finding out, and gets a few surprises along the way.





	Respite

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this, finished, for ages, so I thought it was about time I actually... posted it.

Blood rushed in Geralt’s ears as he watched the burning tower float away--or rather, watched the tower remain still, while he floated away.

When he’d arrived in Flotsam, he’d hoped he’d seen the last of boat travel for a while. At least the weather looked like it’d hold, the sky a calm grey with spots of sunshine.

Roche was alive and well. His decision hadn’t come at a cost to anyone he cared about. He’d saved lives today.

That was the point of his existence, and when the last of the adrenaline faded, he expected a sense of satisfaction to settle over him. Those moments were all he had left, and he kept them close when they came.

A now-familiar tread on the deck tore Geralt’s gaze away from the flames of the tower. The river would curve soon, taking it out of sight, but not out of mind. Geralt could smell smoke on himself, and the smell wouldn’t leave his clothes until he could clean them.

Or his hair, until he could wash it.

“Iorveth,” Geralt greeted, unsure exactly how he was supposed to feel about the elf now.

Geralt liked elves. He didn’t do himself any favours by pretending otherwise.

He even liked this particular elf, though he wasn’t sure he was allowed to show that, yet. Iorveth was guarded, which was to be expected. He was, if anything, faster to drop his guard than Geralt would expect of someone in his position, someone of his age.

Someone of his _history_ , which Geralt suspected he may once have known more about.

Not personally, but from stories. He was learning to tell the difference between recognition and _familiarity_ on the faces of people he was, as far as he was concerned, meeting for the first time.

He hadn’t known Iorveth before now.

Iorveth looked off in the direction of Flotsam, scenting the air delicately. “I can’t imagine anyone who lived there will miss that place.”

“I won’t,” Geralt said without having to think about it. Flotsam had made his skin crawl from the moment he’d arrived.

“Some very beautiful elves who owe you their life have insisted that I pass on their gratitude, and, I think, the implicit invitation therein.”

“All elves are beautiful,” Geralt said. He’d intended it to sound like a brush-off, but he wasn’t entirely sure it came out that way.

Not when blood rushed to Iorveth’s cheeks. It was a faint blush, but Geralt couldn’t have missed it.

A moment later, Iorveth snorted. The sound was derisive, self-deprecating, and something about it made something in Geralt twinge.

“I thought witchers were supposed to have _good_ eyesight. Better than average. Better than elves, even.”

“I wouldn’t trust me with a bow,” Geralt said.

“That’s not what I meant. I also thought witchers were famed for their observation skills.”

“We are. The fact that you don’t _agree_ with my observation doesn’t make me wrong.”

Iorveth raised an eyebrow--his only visible eyebrow--as though it was the equivalent of making a point.

Geralt understood what he was getting at, but he wasn’t ready to cede it. Iorveth still had all the elven beauty he’d been born with, and the added fascination of having his own fight for survival written, very clearly, all over his face.

He was beautiful. Not in the same way some of the elves under his charge were, not in a simple, youthful way. His beauty was that of an old oak tree, ancient and perhaps scarred, but wild and free and…

Geralt paused.

He had no idea he had such strong feelings about Iorveth’s self-image.

“You should see me without my clothes on,” he said, intending to make the point that he, too, was covered in scars.

Unfortunately, his intention and his tone--not to mention his timing--didn’t quite line up.

Iorveth’s eyebrow inched higher.

“I’m not sure I’m _that_ grateful,” he said, a smirk playing around his lips.

Heat coiled in the pit of Geralt’s stomach.

“Witchers are also famous for being terrible with phrasing,” Geralt defended.

He wasn’t about to use magic on Iorveth, and he was fairly sure it wouldn’t take even if he tried. Short of that, his persuasion skills… mostly didn’t exist, and he wasn’t even sure what he wanted out of this conversation.

“Strange, I hadn’t heard that,” Iorveth said, turning his gaze away from Geralt to look out at the forest as they passed it.

“Will you miss this place?” Geralt asked.

“Not for a moment,” Iorveth said. “It took more from me than I could have imagined.”

Not his eye, Geralt thought. That injury was old, maybe older than the town of Flotsam itself.

His people, then.

“You should rest,” Iorveth said suddenly. “The young women so eager to get to know their hero are below deck.”

Geralt wet his lips. He _did_ like elves, but…

He was standing next to the most interesting one he ever remembered meeting.

“I didn’t rescue them with the intention of bedding them,” Geralt said. “Do you think so little of me?”

“No,” Iorveth said, hesitating a moment before continuing. “But I am aware of the… tension, after a fight. I imagine it to be more intense for one of your kind.”

Geralt swallowed. He had no idea whether or not that was true, though the reputation witchers had carved out for themselves seemed to imply that it might be.

Certainly, he hadn’t been able to so much as look at a woman lately without her insisting on bedding _him_. There were expectations attached to his profession.

“And less intense for elves?” Geralt asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Iorveth snorted again. “Lust is a weakness,” he said.

It didn’t sound like a judgement. A statement of fact. The words of a bruised, jaded soul who’d lived too long and fought too much.

Geralt hummed. “I’ll be below deck if you need me.”

Iorveth’s smirk reappeared.

Geralt had no intention of going to the women he’d rescued, but he did need to rest if he had any hope of catching Letho.

Iorveth, and his surprising fascination with him, would have to wait.

***

Iorveth watched Geralt walk away, a strange sadness falling over him as the witcher disappeared below deck.

At least one of them wouldn’t have to sit with the uncomfortable after-effects of a hard-fought battle. Iorveth had almost grown used to it, to denying himself any comfort, to pretending he rose above all of it.

_Pretending_ being the key word.

Guiltily, he strained his hearing, expecting to hear the tinkle of laughter from the women Geralt was no doubt about to thoroughly… _entertain_.

For a moment, he did. Soft, awed giggles that made his stomach clench, a need he’d long pushed away resurfacing for an agonising heartbeat before he managed to shove it aside.

Not a need for sex. Not exactly. He could satisfy himself if that was all.

A need for _affection_ , as disgusted as he was by the thought that he needed anything like that at all. A need to have someone look at him and not see a monster.

For reasons he didn’t entirely understand, Geralt looked at him differently. Perhaps the rumour that his head could be turned by any pair of pointed ears was truer than Iorveth had given it credit.

Given that Geralt was on a barge full of pointy-eared people he could have had his choice of, down to practically the last one, Iorveth doubted he could have caught the witcher’s attention so easily.

Perhaps he was merely being kind. Geralt’s reputation also spoke of an uncommon kindness. He’d died--or rather, Iorveth now understood, _almost_ died--defending non-humans. Everyone who spoke the common language knew the story.

By the time Iorveth’s attention returned to whatever was happening below deck, the laughter had ceased. There was no other sound to suggest that anything other than rest was going on below.

So either the witcher was as quick with his cock as he was with his sword--unfortunate, if true--or…

Curiosity got the better of Iorveth, driving him below deck to see what had happened.

He found the women huddled together in one corner, sleeping peacefully and clinging to one another.

And Geralt in another corner entirely, having liberated two thin mattresses from the cells and stacked them on top of one another. He was curled up with his back to the rest of the room, surprisingly vulnerable without his armour making his frame look even larger than it really was.

Iorveth hesitated, and then came to a decision. He collected two further thin mattresses, deciding that if anyone wanted one of them they were welcome to fight him for it, and laying them down next to Geralt.

Geralt had showed him rare loyalty today, and it was the least Iorveth could do to literally guard his back.

Besides, Geralt was warm, and the barge was cold. An hour or two of dozing sleep would do him good.

***

Geralt woke with a start as a hand touched his shoulder, reaching for the throwing dagger he’d stashed in his belt instantly.

Iorveth’s strange, unmistakable scent hit him, and he relaxed. He was among friends.

He’d been asleep. Really, truly asleep, a rarity at the best of times.

“Are we there?” Geralt asked, his voice rough.

“Not for another few hours. I'm sorry for waking you, but I thought you’d want to be ready,” Iorveth said pressing a waterskin against his chest. A surprisingly thoughtful gesture. Geralt drank a few sips greedily, passing it back with a satisfied groan.

Feminine giggles erupted from the other side of the ship, and Geralt glanced up to see the women he’d rescued yesterday… entertaining themselves.

He huffed a soft, wry laugh. Good for them. Near-death experiences encouraged him to seek comfort, too.

“I don't think they'll mind if you watch,” Iorveth said, leaning against the bulkhead with his head tilted back. His good eye was on Geralt's other side, but Geralt could tell by the rest of his face that it was closed.

“But they will if you do?”

Iorveth barked a laugh. “No, but not for the same reasons.”

Geralt sat back next to Iorveth, finally noticing the extra mattresses beside him.

Iorveth had slept next to him. That was why his body had allowed him to sleep so deeply.

He trusted Iorveth. For all his threats, he’d never moved to hurt Geralt except in his own defence.

“For what reasons, then?”

“For much the same reason no one would hide from an owl, or shoo a cat,” Iorveth said. “Though perhaps _for the same reason no one covers a statue before undressing_ is a better metaphor.”

“They think you’re heartless,” Geralt said after a few moments, finally puzzling out Iorveth’s meaning. He had trouble believing it, but it seemed to be what Iorveth was hinting at.

“Witchers are said not to have feelings,” Iorveth responded. “Though I doubt anyone who’s met you would walk away believing that.”

“Nor anyone who’s met you,” Geralt said softly. Iorveth's depth of love for his people was so obvious that Geralt could hardly believe he’d been painted so effectively as a terrorist. As a monster.

All he wanted was to be free. It seemed like so little to ask.

But humans were cruel. Their hatred of anyone not like them ran deep. It was much easier to hate than understand.

Perhaps it was easier to grasp when Geralt himself spent his life being sneered at for who he was, though people tolerated him for what he did.

“And yet…” Iorveth sighed. “I could stand over them and they wouldn't even imagine I was enjoying it.”

“Would you?” Geralt asked, suddenly curious. He was still piecing together exactly what made Iorveth tick. He was almost impossible to read unless he wanted to be read.

“Not really,” Iorveth admitted. “But that's a long way from the point.”

“I'm not sure I understand the point at all, then,” Geralt admitted.

“Elves are vain creatures,” Iorveth said. “Even those of us who are as scarred as I am. You spoke to my vanity, earlier.”

None of this was news to Geralt, except perhaps that Iorveth was willing to admit it.

It also didn’t answer his question, but he got the feeling that answer was never coming.

“And?” Geralt asked, unsure what that meant.

Iorveth was silent for a moment. He stood, slowly and gracefully, making barely a sound.

It was just as well Geralt trusted him. As an enemy, he would have been formidable.

“Thank you,” Iorveth said after a moment. “I'm still not certain it was sincere, but I appreciate being seen as something other than a monster.”

“You're no monster,” Geralt said. “I’d know.”

To Geralt's surprise, Iorveth laughed. “You know, I think I'm starting to understand the Geralt of all those ballads your friend writes about you. They're not so embellished as I thought.”

Geralt shrugged. “I don't remember,” he said, which was a phrase he was more than a little tired of.

Things were coming back to him, bits and pieces, but nothing about any of that. If Dandelion was to be believed, Geralt had forgotten more about sex than most people would ever learn.

Which wasn't exactly the world's most effective pick-up line.

It was slowly--very slowly--becoming clear to Geralt that he wanted Iorveth. Wanted the lean lines of his body, the rough calluses of his fingers, the hard length of his cock.

None of which he quite _remembered_ wanting before, but the feeling was familiar. He knew what he wanted from a man’s body. From an elf’s, even.

He knew where to touch, and what to expect, and how to make Iorveth writhe and curse under him.

Geralt swallowed.

He might have known what he wanted, but he was no closer to knowing how to _get_ it. He’d grown accustomed to only having to quirk his eyebrow to make a woman's dress fall off.

Iorveth would require more finesse. Finesse Geralt wasn't even sure he had.

“It was sincere,” Geralt said belatedly. “All elves are beautiful. You more than most.”

Iorveth snorted. “I'm not sure what you aim to accomplish by flattering me, but I am not entirely immune.”

“You didn't know me before,” Geralt said. “I like keeping company that doesn't expect me to be someone I'm not. Someone who died.”

“You did die, then?” Iorveth asked.

“Yes. I remember dying.” Geralt wet his lips. “And then… I remember waking up. And very little before that.”

“I'd heard,” Iorveth said. “That you’d lost your memory, I mean.”

“You seem to know a lot about me.”

“I make it my business to know about people who could realistically kill me,” he said.

“And I could?” Geralt asked.

“In a heartbeat, I have no doubt,” Iorveth said. “But I don't think you would. Despite the fact that I am armed, and wanted, and my head is worth a small fortune.”

“I like your head where it is,” Geralt said.

Iorveth smiled wryly. Geralt was getting used to his expressions, beginning to learn the strange way emotions showed on his face. Most people didn’t survive long after losing something so important as an eye. Certainly not wanted men.

But then, Iorveth was special. Geralt had known that from the first moment, from the look on Roche’s face.

Respect. Genuine respect for a worthy adversary. Neither Roche nor Iorveth seemed to have many of those, which was almost certainly why neither of them had killed the other yet.

That would end the game, and they were both fond of games.

“You’re more or less alone in that,” Iorveth said after a moment. “Even _I_ don’t like my head where it is, sometimes.”

Geralt opened his mouth, biting his tongue against the instinct to make a crude joke. Not with Iorveth.

Not yet, anyway. There was still trust to earn, though Geralt was surprised by how much he’d been given. Not that he had any intention of betraying it.

“What was it you called me? An old elf in a young elf’s skin?” Iorveth added after a moment, saving Geralt from himself. “Sometimes I feel very old indeed.”

“I’m not a young man, either,” Geralt said. “Not as old as you, I’d wager.”

“I’ve already forgotten my two-hundredth birthday,” Iorveth said, the faintest hint of a smile in his voice.

“I’ve forgotten all of my birthdays,” Geralt responded. “But I’ve had nearly a hundred of them.”

Iorveth hummed thoughtfully. “Your eyes are too strange to look old.”

“If that was supposed to be a compliment…”

“An observation,” Iorveth said. “Compliments are for lovers.”

“And lust is weakness,” Geralt added, remembering Iorveth’s earlier words.

Perhaps it was a weakness, but it was a _fun_ weakness, and Geralt constantly expected to die bloody. He could afford a weakness or two that made life worth living.

“Cedric,” Iorveth said all of a sudden. “You were with him, when he died.”

“He died in the forest,” Geralt said. “He seemed… at peace.”

Iorveth nodded, a strange sadness falling over his features.

It took Geralt several seconds too long to see it for what it was.

“The kind of person you used to pay compliments to,” he said eventually.

Iorveth swallowed, his sinewy throat bobbing.

“A long time ago,” Iorveth said. “Drunken old fool. He was always going to die at the hands of a human. He liked them.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said.

Cedric had been a hero in the end, fighting for what he thought was right, though Iorveth probably wouldn’t have seen it that way. Perhaps it was kinder to withhold the whole truth.

“As am I, witcher. As am I.” Iorveth sighed.

Perhaps Iorveth had his weaknesses, too. Geralt doubted he had much time for grief, but he could hear the sting of it in his voice.

“I need to gather my men,” he said, springing up in one graceful movement. “You should… do whatever it is witchers do to prepare themselves. I expect you to keep up.”

Geralt snorted. “I expect your elves to keep up,” he said, allowing a small smile, the faintest spark of a challenge in his eyes.

Iorveth’s lip twitched. “When you find yourself struggling to catch up with us, I will remind you of this conversation.”

Geralt didn’t doubt that for a moment as he watched Iorveth walk away.

***

Though they’d cut more than a day off their journey, there was still a five-hour trek between Iorveth and his destination. He couldn’t push his people any further--they were tired, and hungry, many of them injured, and Iorveth knew he was driving them directly into another fight.

He did everything he could not to show it, but his heart ached for them. And for everyone they’d lost.

To his surprise, he found himself drawn, more often than not, to Geralt’s side. The witcher showed no signs of struggling with the pace, his eyes scanning the horizon constantly, his head turning at every unusual sound, shoulders tensing as he prepared to draw his blade.

As the sun hung directly overhead, Iorveth gave into his curiosity and fell into step beside the witcher.

“Two blades,” Iorveth said by way of conversation, having failed to think of anything more intelligent. Hopefully, this would sound like information gathering, and not a thin excuse to speak to Geralt.

A thin excuse to indulge his fascination, when he should have had his mind on other things.

“Silver for monsters, steel for men,” Geralt responded. “But you know that.”

“I do,” Iorveth agreed. “I’ve never seen the need for special equipment to kill either.”

“It’s not about the equipment,” Geralt drawled. “It’s what you do with it.”

Iorveth looked away as a dark blush coloured his cheeks, hoping against hope that the witcher wouldn’t notice it. Geralt had delivered the line so boredly, as though he’d said it a thousand times to a thousand people.

Maybe he had.

But Iorveth wasn’t accustomed to being flirted with. Whether Geralt realised it or not, he’d discovered the one thing that could send Iorveth reeling.

He wasn’t even sure this _was_ flirting, from the witcher’s point of view, but it definitely felt like it from his own.

It was so close to being the affection he’d so dearly wished for less than a day earlier that it was enough to tie his usually sharp tongue into knots.

“Do you ever think of anything but sex?” he mumbled eventually, regretting the question immediately. Asking would mean he got an _answer_ , and he was sure he didn’t want to hear it.

“Rarely,” Geralt said. “That’s what you’re expecting to hear, right?”

“Yes, but only because you’d never tell me that you’re a much deeper thinker than you want people to know,” Iorveth said, almost feeling as though he was back on even ground again.

Probing for a weakness--whether physical or of the mind--was second nature to him. He understood this. Searching for points to exert pressure was natural, and easy, and a safe retreat from the discomfort he suddenly felt at discussing sex with with Geralt.

Discomfort he felt no particular need to dissect just now.

Geralt hummed. “Maybe I’m actually a big, dumb hedonist who follows anyone who seems like they might benefit him?”

“No witcher is stupid,” Iorveth said. “Or you wouldn’t live nearly as long as you do.”

“So despite being betrayed by one, you don’t hold it against all of us?” Geralt asked.

“Of course not,” Iorveth said. “It took a lot of beatings at the hands of humans to turn me against them.”

He realised as soon as the words escaped him that he’d said too much. Revealed too much of himself, laid too many invisible scars bare.

He had enough visible ones that he didn’t need Geralt to know about the bruised body and broken bones of years gone past. He didn’t need to be _vulnerable_ in front of the only person in their travelling party who might be both willing and able to do him some harm.

Not that he believed the witcher would. Not really, not physically, anyway.

“I try to get beat on by a little of everything,” Geralt said, his tone suspiciously even. “Keeps me neutral.”

“Forgive me for my failure to take the moral high ground,” Iorveth said, real, genuine bitterness sneaking into his voice. He’d been warming to Geralt a moment ago, letting his guard down, and he knew now that he had to put it back up, and quickly, before he let the witcher get under his skin.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Geralt murmured, his voice suddenly soft, as gentle as it had been when he’d been accepting thanks from the women he’d rescued as they left the barge.

When it was directed at him, it made Iorveth’s stomach clench uncomfortably. A low, dull heat pooled there, adding to his discomfort.

“We do what we need to survive,” Geralt continued. “I won’t judge you for that. I know that people like me have done people like you a lot of harm. I don’t plan on being one of them, but I understand that you’re not ready to trust me quite yet. I’ll earn it.”

“You sound sure of that,” Iorveth said.

“I’m sure I’ll try.” Geralt shrugged. “The rest is up to you.”

Iorveth looked out at the scenery they were passing, letting the rolling forest thick with trees soothe his elven instincts.

He hadn’t put his guard back up fast enough.

***

Geralt ached down to his bones as he laid on the hard straw mattress of the small bed in his room at the inn, the events of the day wearing on him. Anyone who wanted to meet with him could wait until morning, when he’d had a night’s rest, a bath, and a meal.

The small window he’d left open a crack creaked, the wood shifting as though there was someone there. The dark wasn’t a problem for Geralt’s eyesight, but the angle was.

He reached for the dagger he’d stashed under his pillow, gripping the hilt as a shadowed figure climbed through it, rolling forward gracefully and then picking itself up in one fluid motion.

Iorveth. No one else moved like that, and Geralt could smell him now. Cleaner than he had been, but still steeped in the scent of moss, damp, and herbs.

Other elves smelled floral, but other elves weren’t like this one.

“ _Gwynbleidd_ ,” Iorveth said, nodding once in greeting, as though he were an invited guest.

“Has something happened?” Geralt asked. There’d been tension in the air ever since he’d arrived in Vergen, nothing he could put his finger on, but he was expecting… something.

Something other than a cursed battlefield.

“Not yet,” Iorveth said, perching on one of the stools by the small table opposite the bed.

He could feel the strange tension too, then. Maybe that was why he was here.

“You could have come through the door.”

Iorveth huffed. “Through a throng of drunken dwarves, whistling and jeering as they saw me slip into the famous Geralt of Rivia’s bedchamber in the dead of night?”

“Some people would be honoured by my letting them in,” Geralt said.

“Some people are easily won,” Iorveth muttered as he extracted a long pipe from one of the satchels strapped about him. Geralt watched him take out another small, leather pouch filled with herbs he could smell, but not immediately identify. Nothing he was accustomed to using himself.

Iorveth’s long fingers tamped a pinch of the dried herb into the bowl of the pipe, the moonlight streaming in from the window just enough light to make him clearly visible.

“What is that?” Geralt asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Necessary to sleep in a place where I cannot feel safe,” Iorveth said. “Although I begin to think I won’t need it.”

He struck a match anyway, lighting whatever he had in there.

The smoke was sweet, pungent, and definitely intoxicating. Mildly so, though.

As Iorveth said, probably just enough to get to sleep.

“Has Vergen suddenly gotten safer?” Geralt asked, still unsure what Iorveth was doing here.

“It has, now that I’ve decided to sleep in here,” Iorveth said.

Geralt’s stomach bottomed out. Was Iorveth…?

“By the fire,” he clarified a moment later. “There’s no price on my head here, but heads are very portable. You are the one man in the city who I believe isn’t interested in taking it. Who might even stop someone else from doing so.”

Oh. He was here because he trusted Geralt, not to climb into bed with him.

That was a shame. Not the trust, that was well appreciated, but Iorveth…

Iorveth was all lean lines and coiled power, skittish as a feral cat, and therefore endlessly interesting.

Geralt wanted to earn him, if such a thing was possible, and he’d almost believed for a moment that he had--though he couldn’t think why.

“There’s plenty of room in the bed,” Geralt said.

That was a lie, but it seemed as though it might have been worth a shot.

“If I were actually a squirrel or a fox, perhaps,” Iorveth responded.

Geralt sighed, throwing the blanket off and rolling out of the bed. “Then it’s all yours,” he said.

Iorveth raised an eyebrow.

“Meditation is better for me. I’ll be sharper.”

“I’ve done nothing to earn your kindness,” Iorveth said.

“You’ve asked for it,” Geralt murmured, keeping his voice low. He could feel the tension rolling off Iorveth, his nervousness at being in a strange city. A strange place, so far from his forest, surrounded by rock walls where nothing much grew.

He knelt in front of the fire, staring into the glowing embers, but keeping his senses open. He wouldn’t let himself meditate until he was sure Iorveth was asleep.

Geralt listened intently as Iorveth set his pipe down, stood, and took a step away from the table. “I have no way of repaying you.”

“Sometimes I work for free,” Geralt said. “Especially when a pretty elf is in need.”

Iorveth swallowed so hard that Geralt heard it from where he was kneeling. “I suppose mockery is the price of protection,” he said after a moment.

There was pain in his voice. Pain that made Geralt’s own heart ache.

He stood and turned to face Iorveth, who was still hovering in the middle of the room.

“I’m not mocking you.” Geralt paused to wet his lips.

“I am many things,” Iorveth said slowly, his voice thick with an emotion Geralt couldn’t quite place. “But decorative is not one of them.”

“Never decorative,” Geralt agreed. “But whether or not you see it, there’s a fierce beauty to you. Not soft or delicate, not the deceptive perpetual youth of your kin. It’s in the set of your lips, the sharpness of your gaze, the straightness of your shoulders. I have no reason to lie to you about this.”

Iorveth searched Geralt’s face, his gaze trailing back and forth, his eye shining in the low light of the fire.

Geralt pointed his hand at the fire, casting a sign to make it roar back to life, lighting the room again.

Iorveth was still looking at him, his gaze fixed on the scar that cut through Geralt’s forehead and cheek, bisecting his eyebrow.

Without hurry or ceremony, Geralt pulled the thin shirt he’d curled up to sleep in over his head, letting the fabric flutter to the ground.

He lifted his arms above his head, turning slowly so Iorveth could take in every one of the scars on his torso, from the thin silver lines to the twisted burns and near-fatal puncture wounds.

Geralt didn’t remember acquiring most of them, but they were there all the same.

“Oh,” Iorveth said after a moment.

“I said you should see me without my clothes on,” Geralt said, speaking as if to a horse that was in danger of bolting. “This is what I meant.”

Iorveth nodded slowly, understanding dawning over him like daybreak.

“There are more,” Geralt said. “But I’m not planning on stripping naked unless you ask me to.”

“And if I ask?” Iorveth looked at Geralt carefully, his gaze burning into Geralt’s skin.

“You take off the bandana.”

The blood drained from Iorveth’s face.

“No,” he said, turning away from Geralt so his scar was entirely hidden from view, only looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “ _No_ ,” he repeated, as though his first refusal might not have been forceful enough.

“Why not?” Geralt asked, hating that the question made him sound like a petulant child.

He’d thought he was getting somewhere. Gaining trust. Getting Iorveth to believe that he was being genuine when he called him beautiful.

“Because rejection is painful,” Iorveth said. “I am not made of stone.”

“I’m not planning on rejecting you,” Geralt said.

“That doesn’t mean you won’t.”

Geralt took a step forward, reaching out to trace the shell of Iorveth’s ear, the one on the undamaged side of his face.

He knew how to touch elves. He didn’t remember _how_ he knew, but he knew.

He could feel Iorveth so tense under his touch that he was trembling, as though he was waiting for this to start hurting. This was a man who hadn’t been touched with anything other than cruel intentions in a long time.

Iorveth didn’t move to stop him, though, so Geralt had no intention of stopping. Not until he was told.

“You’ve already earned my allegiance,” Iorveth growled, but still didn’t move away from Geralt’s touch.

He was enjoying it, physically if not otherwise, and was obviously loathe to give it up.

“And you’re a valuable ally,” Geralt murmured. “But that’s not what this is about.”

He leaned in, curling his fingers around Iorveth’s ear to turn his head. Iorveth’s eye widened as he realised what Geralt was about to do, but he didn’t struggle, didn’t fight it.

He accepted the kiss with slack lips, sighing under the contact. A sigh of relief, not pleasure.

Relief was, Geralt suspected, more valuable to Iorveth right now than any amount of pleasure.

“Are you about to tell me I have to win a war to earn you?” Iorveth asked, sadness hanging heavy in his voice.

“Saskia,” Geralt said, without having to think about it.

He could tell Iorveth had been led on. It was a surprise that he knew, though, since he was still here.

Iorveth hummed in agreement.

“You’re coming to fight this war for yourself,” Geralt concluded. If not for love of his would-be queen, at least not reciprocated love, then for love of his people.

“In the interest of retirement,” Iorveth said. “Semi-retirement, anyway. A permanent home, with a bed to return to and a fire to warm me.”

“You don’t mind living in the forest,” Geralt said, knowing that was true, too.

If he’d known kissing Iorveth was all it took to get him to open up, he would have done it back on the barge.

Back in the forest, even. Iorveth had been an inscrutable mystery to him until now, and a fascinating one at that.

“No, but like a stray cat offered milk and a place at the foot of the bed, I’ve had a taste of comfort now. Not just for me. For everyone who’s followed me, put their faith in me. I owe them peace. I’m old enough to remember what it was like before humans and elves were at constant war.”

“And this place could be your peace. Your freedom,” Geralt said.

It was grim now, but it could have been beautiful. And if nothing else, it could have been _safe_.

Iorveth hadn’t been safe in a long time. Even Geralt occasionally got to feel that way.

He must have been exhausted.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I’m not quite stupid enough to do all this for the opportunity to grope a pair of tits.”

“They’re nice, though,” Geralt said. He hadn’t entirely missed how pretty Saskia was.

But he had been distracted by Iorveth heaving from exertion on the other side of the mist, wiping sweat from his brow, and then immediately looking for another fight.

How could he not be drawn to fire like that?

“They are.” Iorveth smiled wryly. “I could… put in a good word.”

Geralt snorted. “I have my eye on someone else, for the moment,” he said, resting his forehead against Iorveth’s.

“Careful, Gwynbleidd,” Iorveth drawled. “I might start to _like_ you, at this rate.”

“You already like me,” Geralt said. Iorveth might have been hard to read, but he wasn’t _that_ hard to read.

“Was it the sneaking in through your window or the drugging myself up so I’d be pliant and vulnerable around you the first clue?” Iorveth asked.

Geralt doubted Iorveth’s plans had involved a heart-to-heart talk about his hopes and dreams, but at his core, he was an idealist. An optimist, even. He didn’t want to eradicate humans. He just wanted to be safe among them.

“The first clue was you not killing me when you had the chance. There’s a price on my head, too. You could have bargained for whatever you wanted if you’d taken me alive.”

“You would have killed me,” Iorveth said. “I’m not stupid enough to try to hold a witcher.”

“But you are stupid enough to sneak into his room and drug yourself to sleep?”

“Mmm,” Iorveth said, fatigue obviously starting to get the better of him. “And to learn that he tastes sweeter than I imagined.”

Geralt tilted his head to kiss Iorveth again, parting his lips this time, allowing Iorveth access to his mouth.

His pointed elven tongue lapped at the inside of Geralt’s lips, a satisfied hum rolling in his chest even as he let Geralt take the rest of his weight.

His head moved to Geralt’s shoulder, the softest of snores escaping him after a few moments.

It wasn’t a deep sleep, but it _was_ sleep.

Geralt wrapped his hands around the back of Iorveth’s lean thighs, lifting his weight with ease. He’d seemed larger a moment ago, but now he seemed delicate, almost fragile. It was easy to miss the surprisingly slight frame when the larger-than-life personality was front-and-centre.

“You’re sleeping in your armour,” Geralt said as he eased Iorveth onto the bed.

“Always do,” Iorveth murmured, apparently not entirely unconscious yet.

Geralt reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Iorveth’s ear, a surprisingly tender gesture even to himself. Iorveth hummed again, the faintest ghost of a smile playing over his lips, only for a moment.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or of Geralt’s imagination.

He threw a blanket over his uninvited guest, and moved to kneel in front of the fire.

***

Iorveth woke at first light, as he always did. What was unusual was the relatively comfortable bed, the warmth of the room, and his desire to stay exactly where he was, just for a few, luxurious moments.

He was getting soft.

So soft that he’d let something so prosaic as _feelings_ dictate his behaviour last night. That he’d laid himself bare, metaphorically if not physically, in front of one of the most dangerous men in the world.

He’d dreamed of Geralt, of course. Of his warmth, and his strength, and of the faintest possibility that had Iorveth simply yielded, given Geralt what he wanted without turning it into a debate, that he would be satisfied now.

Perhaps even _happy_ , though he was no longer sure he’d recognise happiness even if he was drenched in it.

In any case, he _was_ rested. Rested in a way he hadn’t been in a long time.

He rolled out of bed, finding Geralt still kneeling in front of the fire, apparently oblivious to the rest of the world.

That, too, required a lot of trust. Iorveth had no doubt the slightest touch would wake him, but one touch could also kill him, if Iorveth had been inclined. Especially since Geralt was still half-naked.

Rather than disturb him, Iorveth tucked his pipe back into the satchel he kept it in, unwilling to lose something he’d had for so long. He dug around in the same satchel for a few moments before finding what he was looking for.

In the same spot he’d left the pipe, he placed a wooden comb he’d carved a long time ago, when things were quiet on a long summer’s day. He hadn’t allowed himself to care about his own hair in a long time, but Geralt obviously did. For a man who rarely stayed in one place for long, he was surprisingly well-groomed.

Besides, Geralt had taken care of Iorveth. This was the best repayment he could think of, a token of his gratitude so Geralt wouldn’t think he’d simply slipped away when he was done using the witcher as a shield.

Iorveth climbed out of the window he’d come in by, hitting the ground at a crouch and then springing up to walk away as though he’d never sneaked into a witcher’s bedchamber at all, and certainly hadn’t spent the night.

As he walked away to find his people, he chuckled to himself at the irony. He’d spent the night with Geralt and hadn’t even managed to get a glimpse of his famous cock.

He doubted many people could claim the same.

***

The look on Iorveth’s face when Saskia collapsed was almost enough to break Geralt’s heart. If he hadn’t been inclined to help the people of Vergen anyway, he still would have been rushing to her aid, _demanding_ Eilhart come up with cure for her.

Because Iorveth’s peace was at stake. Peace he so clearly needed, for his men, yes, but for himself.

Peace Geralt wanted to give to him.

He’d always been a sucker for a pretty face, and whatever Iorveth’s own feelings on the matter were, Geralt was turning out to be a sucker for him, too.

For once, though, he didn’t have the foreboding sense that it might get him in more trouble than it was worth.

Not because it wouldn’t get him in trouble, but because Iorveth was worth it.

Once the fuss had died down and Geralt knew what he needed to get his hands on, he sought Iorveth out.

He didn’t need to go far. Iorveth was already growling at two Scoia’tael about what he’d do to them if they let anyone but Phillipa pass. His threats remained inventive, and under other circumstances, Geralt would have laughed.

The two elves Iorveth was scowling at didn’t look as though they were considering laughing at any point in the foreseeable future. They believed in the myth of Iorveth’s cruelty.

Geralt no longer did. Not cruelty for the sake of cruelty, in any case.

Geralt had killed a lot of things in his life, and from their point of view, he was the monster.

The comb Iorveth had left him was tucked safely into a pouch at Geralt’s side, a reminder that he was vastly more complicated than he liked people to think.

When Iorveth finally acknowledged his presence, his gaze wild, Geralt nodded to a secluded corner.

Iorveth took the hint and headed for it, leaving the witcher to follow.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said softly.

“She’s not dead yet,” Iorveth said. “Tell me that witch is going to cure her?”

“All I have to do is search the four corners of the earth for the ingredients.”

“What do you need?” Iorveth asked.

“Royal blood, an immortelle, a source of power, and… a rose of remembrance.”

Iorveth scrubbed his face.

“I know where to get… most of those things,” Geralt said, hoping to soothe him. “Triss had a rose. She was going to use it to restore my memory, before Letho kidnapped her.”

“And you’d give up your memory for Saskia’s life?”

Geralt blinked.

It hadn’t even occurred to him _not_ to.

Iorveth’s face softened. “Of course you would. How noble,” he said, his tone dry. Geralt could feel his genuine surprise, though, and his gratitude. “All those women in the stories begin to make sense to me.”

“You should rest,” Geralt said. “I had a second bed made up in my room. For you, if you want it.”

Now, it was Iorveth’s turn to blink.

“I know I compared myself to a stray cat, but…”

“You need somewhere safe to sleep. No one in this town is dumb enough to break into the room of a witcher. We make all kinds of traps.”

“I broke into your room,” Iorveth pointed out.

“Through a window only an elf could reach,” Geralt said. “Someone in this town just attempted murder. Someone powerful. We don’t know if Saskia was their last intended victim. And if it’s going to be anyone else…”

“It will likely be me,” Iorveth said.

“Right. And I’ve only got the one rose. Don’t make me choose between your freedom and your life.”

Iorveth rolled his eye, a gesture that, if anything, looked even more dramatic with just the one. “I am not your pet elf.”

“No,” Geralt responded. “You’re my friend. And as a friend, I’m asking you to lay low. Just while I figure this out.”

“Friend,” Iorveth repeated, rolling the word around his mouth as though he was trying it on for size. He hummed, and Geralt wasn’t entirely sure he was satisfied with that descriptor, but he didn’t seem to be likely to argue, either.

Geralt met his gaze, holding it for a few long moments.

“All right. I’ll _lay low,_ as you say,” he promised.

Geralt glanced to either side, checking to make sure they weren’t being watched, and then darted in to press a kiss to Iorveth’s lips.

When he backed off, Iorveth was blushing.

Geralt knew what he wanted, what he _really_ wanted, and why he was afraid to ask for it.

Maybe once Saskia was up and about again, Iorveth would try his hand once more.

This time, Geralt wouldn’t screw it up by being too slow to act.

“You’re sweeter than I imagined, too,” Geralt said, pushing away and heading out into the city to get started on curing Saskia.

***

Standing between angry peasants who hated him and haughty nobles who he would have cheerfully dug graves for was probably, Iorveth reflected, not what Geralt had meant when he told him to lay low.

There was some small part of him that was worried Geralt would be disappointed in him, which was perhaps the most ridiculous part of the entire situation.

If Geralt wanted to keep him caged, then he wasn’t the man Iorveth thought--or maybe _hoped_ \--he was.

At almost the exact moment he formed the thought, a familiar head of white hair appeared at the back of the crowd, Geralt elbowing his way past the angry mob. The angry mob who, for the most part, were smart enough to get out of his way.

He was covered in what Iorveth wanted to describe as _blood_ , but suspected was actually a wide variety of internal fluids.

He supposed Geralt was _often_ covered in unidentifiable gunk, though he seemed to believe in bathing, at least.

Which was more than could be said for any other _dh’oine_ in this hallway.

He was just barely starting to think that word didn’t quite apply to Geralt. Not in any of the ways he used it, anyway.

“I need Stennis’ blood,” Geralt said as he approached, apparently taking Iorveth as the ultimate authority on the current situation.

That was almost more flattering than anything else he’d said.

“You’ll have to join the queue,” Iorveth nodded to the rabble-rousers now glaring at Geralt’s back.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Geralt demanded.

He smelled awful, but for the first time in his life, Iorveth didn’t care. He’d woken up in the bed Geralt had been dozing in, surrounded by his real scent. He knew what the witcher was _meant_ to smell like.

The heat of his body, the tension coiled in his muscles made the pit of Iorveth’s stomach ache, something between nerves and need curling up there.

“I’m sure you’ve heard,” Iorveth said, aiming at aloofness but, he suspected, falling short of the mark.

The intensity with which he wanted Geralt, now more than ever, made him feel uncomfortably vulnerable. He never _wanted_ anything, which saved him the pain of having it denied to him.

And now he was trying to sabotage himself out of getting it. Of course. Two centuries of experience and he’d learned nothing at all.

“I want to hear it from you.”

Iorveth’s ears twitched involuntarily.

_Trust_. Not just the kind of trust required to let him sleep in the same room, but trust in his judgement, in his grasp on the situation, in his intelligence.

“They believe Stennis poisoned Saskia,” he nodded to the crowd. “And they also want his blood. Probably more of it than you do.”

“I need it to cure her,” Geralt said. “What do _you_ think?”

Iorveth raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking for my opinion on whether or not a dh’oine is guilty of a crime which serves to injure non-humans?”

Geralt sighed. “Yes. You seem the most… reasonable person present.”

Iorveth couldn’t stop himself from smirking at that. _Reasonable_.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before,” he said. “I think it’s entirely possible, but I can’t prove it.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “You’ve killed men for less.”

“And I’d enjoy killing him, have no doubt of that. But this city is on the brink of war, and political instability won’t help its chances.”

If it were up to Iorveth, he would have taken great pleasure in killing Stennis, but his presence here was already a strain for many people, and he couldn’t afford to be seen as more of a troublemaker than he already was.

Not if he wanted peace. Not if he wanted to find somewhere to settle down, to occasionally stop fighting. To rest.

He’d never really known a time like that.

“We’ll find you something else to enjoy,” Geralt said, almost absently, looking over Iorveth’s shoulder. “I’m going to talk to him.”

Geralt gripped Iorveth’s arm on the way past, squeezing it hard.

And leaving a smear of something black and sticky on the arm of his coat.

Iorveth wrinkled his nose, but said nothing. The touch made him…

Not _happy_. Nothing so dramatic as that, but… lighter. It made him feel supported, reassured that Geralt would have his back when--not if--the nobles and peasants he was keeping separated for the time being came to blows.

Having a cadre of archers at his disposal was less useful when he was trapped in a narrow hallway with only the one exit. Especially when he couldn’t really afford to kill _everyone_ here.

He couldn’t hear Geralt getting impatient with the prince behind him, but he could _feel_ it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, his shoulders tensed, ready for a fight.

When the door burst open, Iorveth whirled around, his hand going to his hip for a throwing dagger. Harder to aim with a dagger than a bow, but Geralt would survive a scrape if he missed.

Blood rushed in his ears as he watched Geralt push Stennis to the angry crowd. Geralt’s eyes burned with a righteous fury Iorveth had never seen on anyone before, but had _felt_ in himself.

For the first time in his entire, long life, Iorveth wanted to shove the witcher to the floor and ride him until they both came growling, satisfied by fucking as thoroughly as they could have fought.

He couldn’t remember ever wanting something like that. He remembered gentle kisses, gentle touches, soft laughter, warmth and slow-burning pleasure.

Never a furnace like this, settling in his gut and making every strap on his body feel too tight.

It had been a long time. Too long, obviously.

He didn’t even look at the crowd busy murdering their undoubtedly corrupt, probably deeply guilty monarch.

Geralt seemed to think Stennis had done it. That was enough confirmation for Iorveth that he had.

Besides, as he’d said, he would have killed Stennis for less.

Geralt looked to him once the crowd was done, one eyebrow raised. He took two strides forward, removed an empty flask from his belt, and scooped up a generous measure of Stennis’ blood into it.

“One less corrupt monarch to worry about,” Iorveth said, because that was what he was supposed to say.

“I thought you didn’t want him dead,” Geralt said, securing the flask to his belt again.

“I didn’t want to be seen killing him,” Iorveth corrected. “I also didn’t want a civil war, but Saskia will prevent that.”

“You have a lot of faith in her.” Geralt rolled his broad, undoubtedly tense shoulders. He was trying to sound as though he didn’t care, Iorveth could tell, though he could hear the faintest hint of jealousy in Geralt’s voice.

Jealousy.

Over _Iorveth’s_ affections.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever made anyone feel jealous, even for a moment, in his life before.

“And I’m developing even more faith in you,” he said softly. “Go. Cure her. I’ll keep the crowd under control.”

“You’re not coming?”

Iorveth shook his head.

He couldn’t bear to watch if it didn’t work. It would break his heart to see the best chance he’d ever had to change the world die.

He couldn’t afford a broken heart.

“Then I’ll see you later?”

Iorveth wet his lips. His heart pounded in his chest at what he was about to say, but he planned on saying it anyway.

“Save her, and you can have me,” he murmured, just loud enough for the witcher to hear.

“I’ll save her,” Geralt promised, leaning in so close that his lips almost brushed against the shell of Iorveth’s ear. “And I’ll expect you to keep that promise.”

Iorveth managed to hold back a shiver until Geralt had turned his back, his skin tingling where he could still feel the witcher’s breath brushing it.

He would need to slip away quickly and quietly if the cure failed.

Now he had even more reason to hope it wouldn’t.

***

The hinges creaked as Geralt shut the door of his room behind him, the low glow of the fire telling him that, as promised, he wasn’t alone.

He had no real intention of holding Iorveth to anything. A promise made in the heat of the moment was unfair.

Not that he was in the mood to refuse a respite from being up to his elbows in monsters and other ugly business. Especially not if the respite came in the form of a beautiful elf, who he wanted now more than ever.

The more he learned about Iorveth, the more he wanted to know. There was an addictive quality to him, and he suspected that he had it to thank, at least partly, for the loyalty of his people. Iorveth may not have noticed, but Geralt saw the way they looked at him, heard the way they spoke of him.

There was a bucket of water by the fire, a washcloth draped over it.

“I took the liberty of bathing,” Iorveth’s voice rumbled from the shadows at the other end of the room.

Geralt turned his head in time to see him emerging from the shadows, in only a pair of clean, soft-looking leggings.

And no bandana.

He met Iorveth’s gaze, refusing to shy away from looking at the scar on his face, but careful not to stare.

He could finally see the rest of the intricate tattoo on his chest, his eyes following the lines down to where they disappeared as they curled over his hip.

Iorveth’s body was not unscarred, either, but he had fewer marks on him than Geralt, and none more serious than thin silver lines, a thicker puncture wound here and there.

Elven medicine was advanced. The scar on his face had been tended to by someone who didn’t care much how it turned out, only that he stopped bleeding.

“It goes all the way to my ankle,” Iorveth said softly, apparently noticing Geralt’s interest.

“It’s beautiful,” Geralt murmured in response. “And excellent work.”

That earned him a smile. “Much of it is _my_ work,” Iorveth said. “So I appreciate the compliment.”

“I’m allowed to pay you compliments, now?” Geralt asked, raising an eyebrow.

He still remembered Iorveth saying compliments were for lovers. And that lust was weak.

A weakness they shared, obviously, if the trembling anticipation in the way Iorveth held himself was anything to go by.

“I’d appreciate it if you bathed, as well,” Iorveth said in response, side-stepping the question.

Geralt decided to take that as a yes.

He nodded, pulling his gloves off and getting to work on the straps and buckles of his armour, glad to be free of the weight of every piece as he set it down.

The thought that he might disappoint Iorveth in this state crossed his mind, but he’d been through much worse, and he suspected Iorveth would be happy with being touched by anyone who didn’t want to hurt him.

He’d responded well last time. So well that Geralt had thought of little else since.

“I could help,” Iorveth offered as Geralt pulled his boots off, leaving him in bare feet, his trousers, and the thin shirt he wore under his armour in the warmer months.

“I’m sorry,” he added when Geralt paused. “I’ve… forgotten, how to…”

“It’s like riding a horse.”

“I have no idea how to ride a horse,” Iorveth said. “Awful creatures. And that’s not… I remember how sex works. Mostly.”

Geralt wasn’t sure whether or not that was a joke.

“I’ve forgotten what it’s like to care for a lover,” Iorveth said.

Geralt was still processing the part where Iorveth didn’t like horses.

Eventually, his mind got to _care for a lover_ , and his heart clenched in his chest.

He hadn’t taken the time to think about how much Iorveth was giving him. The way he’d chosen to do this--to prepare ahead of time, to undress, to show the whole of his face to Geralt.

If this was about the honour of keeping a promise, he might have burst in fully clothed, palmed Geralt’s cock until he came, and disappeared again.

It was about more than that.

Geralt, clearly, had forgotten how to care for a lover, as well.

If he’d ever known in the first place.

“I’d like it if you helped,” Geralt said honestly. He liked to be touched by people not intending to hurt him, too.

Iorveth closed the gap between them in two long, graceful strides.

Unexpectedly, he held out a small, amber vial, no longer than Geralt’s palm.

“I had to ask one of my men for this,” Iorveth said. “I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Oil?” Geralt asked, holding the vial up to the fire and watching the liquid move inside it.

“Yes. Specially formulated,” Iorveth said. “It, uh. It tingles.”

He looked away, scratching the back of his neck, a dark blush colouring his cheekbones.

Geralt smiled, a tiny wave of delight washing over him as he realised what Iorveth was getting at, and why he’d handed it to Geralt.

“So elves aren’t complete strangers to pleasure,” he said.

Of course, he knew that. What he hadn’t been sure of was whether or not _Iorveth_ was.

“I was planning on enjoying myself,” Iorveth said, the nerves that had been clear in his voice since Geralt entered the room giving way to some of the usual steel.

Geralt chuckled. “Funny, I was planning on enjoying you, too.”

He set the vial he’d been given down on the small table, then stripped the rest of his clothes off, eager to be rid of them.

A few tense moments of silence followed as Iorveth looked him up and down, assessing.

“Oh,” he said eventually. Not the surprise of last time, but a syllable that dripped with arousal.

“You are… not elf-like at all,” he added after a moment.

“Problem?” Geralt asked, but he already knew the answer.

“No.” Iorveth swallowed. “Definitely no problem.”

“You’ve never had a human,” Geralt said. He might have guessed as much, but he hadn’t thought about it at all until now. “Or an almost-human, anyway.”

“I imagine you’re accustomed to elves,” Iorveth said, his hand caressing his bare stomach, hesitating at the top of his knit leggings. “This will all be routine for you.”

Geralt reached out, cupping his scarred cheek, and leaned in for a soft, light kiss. “Nothing about you is routine,” he said, slipping past Iorveth to the not-quite-cold water by the fire.

He’d promised he’d bathe, and he knew how much elves valued cleanliness. Iorveth had done him the courtesy of washing--and by his scent, going so far as to apply some kind of perfume, a floral note that hadn't been there before, that Geralt had noticed the absence of when they first met.

“Do you think I'll make it to the stories? The rebel elf who gave himself to the witcher out of gratitude for his good deeds?”

“Do you _want_ to make it to the stories?” Geralt asked, reaching out for the washcloth.

Long, thin fingers snatched it away before he could, and a moment later, Iorveth was scrubbing his back. The low throb of anticipation that had been glowing like spent embers inside of Geralt flared up into real arousal in an instant.

Iorveth was not the kind of man who did this for just anyone.

“What _is_ that smell?” Iorveth asked. Geralt didn’t need to see his face to know his nose was wrinkled.

“You’re probably happier not knowing,” Geralt said.

Iorveth hummed. “Your profession doesn’t horrify me.”

“Necrophage guts,” Geralt responded. If Iorveth wanted to know, there was no point in trying to protect him.

He didn’t need protecting from hearing about monsters. Angry peasants, maybe, but not things that went bump in the night.

“They’re toxic, so don’t… lick my armour, or anything,” he said, realising how stupid he sounded a moment too late.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Iorveth said, swiping the cool washcloth over the back of Geralt’s neck, sweeping his hair out of the way and leaving it draped over his shoulder.

The softest brush of lips against the back of his neck came as a surprise, but it shouldn’t have. Iorveth wanted him. He just happened to be taking his sweet time.

The washcloth trailed down his sides, over his stomach, down past his hips to the outside of his thighs, Iorveth deftly avoiding the most sensitive spots.

His touch spoke of experience, long-dormant, but not entirely forgotten.

“How long has it been?” Geralt asked. “Since…”

“Fifteen years,” Iorveth said quietly. “The blink of an eye, really.”

Geralt suspected he’d felt every one of those years keenly. Sex, he could have had. Paid for it if he needed to, but his followers revered him, and would have been eager to be invited into his bed, whether or not Iorveth believed that.

This was something else. Intimacy. That was why he was washing away the dirt and exhaustion of the day, why he was being so gentle.

Geralt didn’t doubt for a second that it was about sex, as well. That Iorveth was well and truly ready for a good ploughing, that he’d chosen Geralt for physical reasons as well as, maybe, emotional ones.

Geralt was safe. To women, safe in the sense that he couldn’t pass them a disease or get them pregnant. To Iorveth, because Geralt had already shown he wasn’t inclined to slit his throat in the night, and that made him one of few that weren’t Iorveth’s own elves.

Iorveth gripped his cock through the washcloth, stroking it along his length a little harder than was necessary. Not that Geralt was about to complain. He bit his lip, savouring the feeling of blood rushing down, starting to make it heavy and thick.

Too soon, Iorveth moved on, giving both of Geralt’s inner thighs a quick brush and then tossing the washcloth aside.

He paced around Geralt to stand in front of him, his chest and shoulders rising and falling with every breath.

It _still_ felt like being approached by a wild animal. He wondered, for a moment, if Iorveth felt the same way.

While he was busy wondering, the elf dropped soundlessly to his knees. He stared at Geralt’s cock, wetting his lips subtly. “May I…?”

“I’m all yours,” Geralt rumbled, his throat suddenly dry.

Iorveth looked up at him, a strange, searching gaze that made Geralt want to squirm under it.

“I doubt all of you is anyone’s,” he murmured. “But do you _like_ this?”

It was the kind of question Geralt expected to be asked as a tease, but Iorveth’s tone was genuine. He was actually… asking… if Geralt would enjoy having his cock sucked.

“I’ve never met a man who didn’t,” he said, unsure how else to respond.

Iorveth smiled wryly. “Plenty of elves hate it. Too sensitive.”

He paused, curling his hand around Geralt’s hip, leaning in to brush his nose against it, his breath ghosting over Geralt’s rapidly-hardening cock. “I may yet develop a taste for witchers,” he murmured.

Geralt groaned as Iorveth licked a stripe along his length, catching the head of his cock in his mouth at the end of it. He reached out to Iorveth’s hair automatically, threading his fingers through it.

Iorveth looked up at him, his face open and vulnerable for the first time since they’d met. He almost looked as though he was about to say something, but then clearly changed his mind.

Instead, he let his eyes fall closed and slid Geralt's cock further into his mouth, humming softly around it.

As it turned out, his tongue was just as clever here as when he was barking insults or curling it around the syllables of his own language.

Geralt bit his lip to stop himself from shouting as Iorveth took him further into his throat, swallowing around him like it was nothing. The heat of it seeped into him, his cock twitching, leaking precome into Iorveth’s mouth.

Iorveth barely reacted, his tongue massaging Geralt’s cock from underneath, his strong throat flexing around him.

He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but this had never crossed his mind. A man like this, willingly sucking his cock, tiny, eager sounds escaping him as he did so. As though he could imagine no greater pleasure.

For the moment, Geralt couldn’t. He wanted to sink deep into the wet heat of Iorveth’s mouth and stay there as long as he could stand it, come down his delicate elven throat, lick the taste of himself off Iorveth’s tongue when they were done.

Iorveth curled strong fingers around Geralt’s hip, squeezing just hard enough to make him _feel_ it, the hard grip a stark contrast to the softness of his mouth, the ease with which he took Geralt ever deeper, until his nose was brushing against the nest of white curls that framed Geralt’s cock.

He tightened his fingers in Iorveth's hair, stopping just short of pulling. Something half-remembered told him that elves had a hair thing.

Iorveth might not have been a typical elf, but…

The answering moan around his cock told Geralt he’d remembered at least half right. He let his eyes fall closed, his fingers massaging Iorveth’s scalp as he enjoyed the heat and pressure, spreading his legs just a little further apart to keep his balance.

He trailed his free hand along the shell of Iorveth’s ear, then down his throat, letting his fingertips ghost over the smooth skin there. Elves didn’t grow beards.

Up until this moment, Geralt had assumed that was by preference. Now, he realised otherwise as his fingers glided over soft, light hairs where his own coarser ones would have been.

Iorveth let Geralt’s cock fall from his mouth with a wet pop, and Geralt made a low, keening sound of loss that he’d never heard himself make before.

Things had _just_ been getting interesting.

He watched Iorveth wipe his lips on the back of his hand, his eye glazed, pupil blown wide so that there was only a thin ring of green left around it.

Geralt licked his lips. Arousal looked good on him.

Iorveth stood, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his leggings and then pushing them down, stepping toward Geralt as they pooled on the floor.

Geralt, ever weak in the presence of beautiful creatures, stared.

“All of me is yours,” he murmured. “For the night, at least.”

Lust had made him say a lot of stupid things in his life, and that was right up there.

Iorveth didn’t need to know how desperately he wanted this, but it was too late to hide it now.

Instead of mocking, or taking advantage, Iorveth closed the gap between them and reached out, tucking a strand of Geralt’s hair behind his ear. “Likewise,” he murmured.

Geralt swallowed. He was starting to get the feeling he was in for a helluva night.

***

Iorveth closed his eye as he finally sank down on Geralt’s cock, long-forgotten fullness making his skin feel too tight, the hairs on his arms prickle.

His own cock caught on Geralt’s stomach, the roughness of scars where the witcher had been torn apart and put back together an impossible number of times tugging and pulling at his sensitive skin.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Geralt rumbled, his hand resting on Iorveth’s hip, rough and calloused and so, so good. Iorveth was used to warriors, used to rough hands, and Geralt’s were rougher than most. There was hardly an unscarred inch of him.

Every one of them told a story, stories Iorveth would have eagerly laid back and listened to in the dying light of a fire. If only they had more time.

For now, this would have to be enough.

“I did say I planned to,” Iorveth gritted out, his voice nowhere near as even as he would have liked, but he was too far gone to care.

This was a rare opportunity to let _go_ , to know he’d be safe even if he lost all track of where he was and what was happening around him, and he didn’t intend to waste it.

Iorveth’s belly ached with arousal as he shifted, Geralt’s cock thick inside him, curved just the right way to hit all of his most sensitive parts with nothing more than slight rocking on Iorveth’s part.

And he _could_ have made this quick and athletic and absolutely, brutally fucked himself on Geralt’s cock, and he might even have enjoyed it, but he didn’t _need_ to be quick. He could enjoy this for as long as he liked, or at least until the sun rose, in any case.

He would need to leave to collect more archers in the morning. If he was delayed along the way, he might never see Geralt alive again.

This was always true, of everyone he knew, every time they parted.

He would make the most of tonight, because tomorrow was not guaranteed.

Instead, he licked a stripe up Geralt’s neck, taking stock of the taste of him, rocking his hips in lazy circles. Geralt stroked over his skin, finding and tracing scars and sensitive places as though they were one and the same, making Iorveth gasp as the calluses of his fingers dragged against him, sending sparks of pleasure skittering over him like embers from a forge fire.

Pleasure built and built in the pit of his stomach, deep and slow and satisfying, the pressure of it spurring Iorveth to grind his hips harder, shove his hand between them and fist his own cock as Geralt gripped him tight, breath speeding up, his pupils wide and round and suddenly not strange at all, the barest ring of amber around the edges.

Iorveth surged forward, need and want and _sentiment_ driving him to seize Geralt’s lips, his heart clenching as he swallowed a moan, heartfelt and sincere and everything that was dangerous about Geralt, everything that could have turned him into an unacceptable weakness.

His thighs burned as he pressed their foreheads together, letting his eyes fall closed and allowing himself, just for a moment, to forget everything else, to focus on the tight ball of pleasure in his belly, on the way Geralt’s cock shifted inside him, on the feel of his skin under Iorveth’s fingers, scarred and rough and worn, like Iorveth was, older than he looked by a long way, _tired_ , dammit, but still here, still fighting.

And still, as Geralt had called him more than once now, beautiful.

The white-hot rush of his orgasm caught Iorveth by surprise, happening all at once and making Iorveth cry out as it washed over him, blindingly bright and almost painfully intense, so long since he’d had this with someone else that he’d nearly forgotten what it was like.

Geralt coming inside him set off another wave of pleasure, his stomach tensing as he spilled between his and Geralt’s body, groaning with the intensity of it, his lungs burning and his toes curling, pleasure rippling through him with every tiny movement until it was too much, his skin oversensitive to the point of pain, and he stilled in Geralt’s lap.

They stayed together, catching their breath, for long moments. And then Geralt’s hands came up and splayed over Iorveth’s back, a painfully tender gesture, and something new and uncertain settled in Iorveth’s stomach.

The faintest sense that this, whatever it was, could be a strength.

“Well?” Geralt said after a few more moments.

Iorveth looked at him, unsure what he was being asked. “Well?”

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Geralt asked, a smile playing around his lips.

Iorveth chuckled. “Is your ego _so_ fragile that you have to ask?” he teased, which told him more than any long period of introspection might.

Geralt had come to _mean_ something to him, but for once in his life, that thought didn’t fill him with dread. If anything, it came with a desperately-needed spark of hope.

He would see this man again, and his archers would blot out the sun, and Vergen would be free and at peace. There was no other path available to him.

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Geralt said, grinning at him. And it was so _easy_ for him to be warm, and kind, and Iorveth envied that, and wanted it for himself.

Perhaps, with a little more time, he could have it, too.

“You say that as though the evening’s over,” Iorveth responded.

“It is,” Geralt said, to his incredible surprise. “You need to sleep if you’re heading out at dawn.”

Something in Iorveth’s chest fluttered.

“We’ll do this again when Vergen’s safe,” Geralt said, and he sounded as though he was sure that was how things were going to go.

Well, it was either that or they’d both be dead, so it wasn’t as though Iorveth could hold him to the promise if things didn’t go their way.

Before Iorveth could think of a response, Geralt rolled them onto the bed, pulling a blanket up over their shoulders, apparently not concerned that they were both filthy.

“You can wash in the morning,” Geralt murmured, as though he’d read Iorveth’s mind.

Iorveth chuckled, and it sounded strange even to his own ears, but it was a welcome sort of strangeness.

“You can help,” he murmured, letting his eyes fall closed.

Whatever was coming, Iorveth was glad he’d had this.

 


End file.
